


follow cars and follow you

by brophigenia



Series: k does the dreampack [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Hatred, Use of the Word 'Slut'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 00:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15545481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: The thing about Skov is that he’s a fuckingslut.[Kavinsky and Skov, after soccer practice.]





	follow cars and follow you

**Author's Note:**

> Do we NEED more discourse about the dreampack? Probably not. Am I gonna keep writing discourse (and hardcore porn) about the dreampack? Yes.

The thing about Skov is that he’s a fucking  _ slut.  _

It’s not like K  _ minds;  _ free love and bodily autonomy, rah rah rah, all that bullshit. Fuck monogamy. Whatever. He doesn’t fucking mind,  _ obviously.  _ If he minded then he’d make sure Skov only fucked  _ him,  _ and he  _ could. _ He knows he could. Skov may moon over Swan but K was his fucking  _ religion.  _ He like, transcended mortal bonds or whatever. Turned water into vodka and boners into orgasms. Whatthefuckever. 

Skov is a fucking slut, and he’s  _ hot,  _ like. All soccer thighs and washboard abs and obnoxiously blue undercut, mouth always wet and  _ wanting.  _ It’s some shit. K doesn’t usually care about that shit, he mostly likes people for how twisted up he can make them, how far he can push them, but with Skov it’s a lot more  _ physical. _

It’s physical, and it’s like one of his drugs:  _ addicting.  _ Skov’s ass and his mouth and even his cock, they’re  _ addicting.  _ He’s had enough practice that he could probably get his PhD in dicking down; K knows this. K  _ appreciates  _ this, on a molecular level. His bone marrow thanks all of the cocks that battered Skov’s gag reflex away before he even rolled up on the scene. It’s a thing. Gratitude to the universe. Self care. K’s been checking out some articles online. Or like, captions on Instagram posts. Whatever, same fucking thing. He’s not here to participate in discourse about academic discrimination and social media platforms. 

He’s here to get fucking  _ laid,  _ and he’s gonna do it, too, because the thing about Skov is that he’s a slut and he’s kind of a sure thing. Especially for K.

He waits in the parking lot for soccer practice to end, half-dangling out his open window with the music turned up as loud as it’ll go, bass thunderous, smoking a blunt leisurely. Dream weed, and it tastes like fucking top shelf shit, like that shit he’d bought off of those dudes with the hot blonde girlfriend forever ago. 

(One thing about K: he can’t fucking  _ stand _ cheap weed. Can’t stand even the fucking smell, skunked like sour gasoline.) 

One of the soccer coaches walks past the car; K blows smoke rings at him, and then winks lasciviously. It’s the same coach that buys pills off him nervously once every few weeks, like anybody’s gonna care he needs a few xannies to make it through the fucking week in this hellhole. 

Skov is drenched in sweat, shirtless, wearing nothing but his shorts and socks and dumbass Nike slides. Not for the first time K considers the bare expanse of Skov’s collarbones and thinks about putting something there— a dog collar or a gold chain, one, and they leveled out to the same thing in the end, anyway. 

Skov smiles when he sees K; not a smirk, not a grin, nothing devious behind it. He smiles, cheeks flushed from practice, and leans down to press a kiss to the corner of K’s mouth. He smells like expensive cologne and clean sweat and grass; K rumbles in his chest, pleased. He fucking  _ likes  _ this. Skov is like a fucking trophy wife. K wraps a greedy hand around his thigh while he drives, simmering leisure. Deep in his high, blood up and cock hard already. 

Back at the house there’s no sign of his bitch of a mother; K hopes she’s either fucked off to rehab again or maybe died in one of the bathrooms in the basement, far enough away that he won’t have to smell her decompose. He leads Skov up the stairs with a possessive hand on his lower back, even though Skov knows the way. Skov knows his way to most of the bedrooms in Henrietta; of course he knows his way around K’s. 

Another thing he likes about Skov: he gets right to fucking business. They get into K’s room and then Skov is skimming off his shorts, kicking away his slides, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck like he’s getting ready for an intense yoga sesh. 

It’s  _ endearing.  _ K is  _ endeared.  _

He’s gonna  _ keep _ being endeared while he fucks Skov crosseyed. 

Skov goes down easy for it. He’s fucking  _ easy.  _ It’s easier to fuck him than it is to fuck anybody else. For a lot of reasons. K doesn’t feel sick when he looks at Skov splayed in his bed. He doesn’t feel guilt —or the glaring absence of it— when he’s making Skov cry out. Skov doesn’t look at him like he’s a piece of shit. Skov doesn’t care who he is on the inside. Skov cares about who he presents himself to be, cares about the impossibility of him, his existence. Skov is here for  _ K,  _ not  _ Joey.  _ There is no Joey, as far as Skov is concerned. K sprang fully formed from the earth with mystical dream powers and pockets full of drugs, if you’d believe Skov’s telling of it. 

Skov opens his legs, thighs all muscle, quads from endless laps and endless squats and endless kicks. Everything about Skov is endless. Boundless. K opens him up with just two fingers and fucks him long and slow, Skov’s hands on his hips steering the way, encouraging a steady, rolling rhythm. He’s too good at this. Too good by half, and K should examine the reasons why he’s so good more closely, if he were a better man. A better friend. A man at all. A  _ friend  _ at all. He has no friends. He is no man. He is a dreamthing, full to his teeth of fury and fear. He has followers and he has playthings and he is always  _ alone  _ in the end. 

Skov understands this. Skov guides him and Skov moans for him and Skov says  _ there we go  _ when K comes, keeps his thighs tight around K’s hips and waits for him to get hard again, waits for it all to start again. There is no quick fuck when Skov’s involved. At least not for K. When Skov has all of his god’s attention he wants it for longer than a ten minute blowjob in the front seat of the Evo. 

In the end K is boneless and sated completely, warm and  _ okay.  _ Too tired for anything. Skov tucks the blankets around him and sits up next to him while he sleeps, smoking out of the self-lighting pipe K dreamt him years ago now, the same blue as his hair. Sparkling with foil stars inside the glass, silvery. A pretty thing for  _ his  _ pretty thing. Skov strokes his long fingers through K’s hair  _ gently.  _ K falls asleep with his face pressed to Skov’s hip, knows he’ll be okay until he wakes back up. 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
